The figure sat
by Crack Monkey
Summary: Yes, the name sucks. This is the Breath of Fire story that I like to work on when I should be doing more important things. Hard to describe, just read it.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I don't own Breath of Fire or anything. This isn't really important yet, mind.   
  
Foreword: Nobody ever freaking reads my stories! So here, I've just written the first chapter. If somebody decides to _review_ the thing, and it sounds even remotely positive, I will continue. But only if. Please enjoy, and _**please**_ review. And yes, the title is awful. I know.   
  
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The figure sat.

  
  
  
  
The figure sat, hunched up, cursing the cold, and waiting. Out across the courtyard the rain danced and pattered amongst the broken paving stones and fed the weeds and moss that crept from between the cracks and into the daylight. Not that the sun was shining.  
  
Here, it always rained. He hated it. Despised it. There was something about this continuos rain, day after day, often lasting for weeks; and it depressed him. With so little to do, he found himself spending hours every day just watching the rain. That, and questioning the insane pretence of logic that had led him to buy this forsaken building.   
  
Why here, of all the places in the world? He had travelled. At some point in his lifetime, he must have been to every country, every isle on the planet. He had seen the stunning, breathtaking sunsets in the deserts of the great Southern continent of the East. One island he had seen, he remembered, was a rich, green, exotic place, with a central mountain from which cascaded countless waterfalls, roaring and spilling; roaming through the valleys in such a way that the island itself seemed to take on life. Even his home town, warm and comfortable; snowy, but charming in the winter; fresh in the spring, with the new-born birdsong and the first flowers of the year; and the long, hazy, warm summer days; such comfort and fond memories he took from these places: Familiar sights, familiar faces; friends who he loved. So why, of all places, had he chosen to settle here?  
  
All it ever did was _rain_.  
  
And yet he could not leave. He knew it, in his heart. Something had tied him here, and was keeping him. He felt it in the days, when he looked from the window and saw what he had known before he even rose from his sheets would be the rain; pattering, slapping heavily onto the faded leather awning that sagged heavily above the door. Every day, the sight, the sound; everything he knew so well of the ceaseless rain would rob him of his strength; and at night it kept him awake; uncomfortable, but too tired to move; he would lie in torment and misery, staring at the ceiling, until his eyes burnt holes through the back of his sockets and he wondered if the morning would ever come.  
And then sleep would take him, but would give him precious little rest.   
  
Weeks passed in this way, months, perhaps years, as all sense of time blurred into itself and he could not remember what he had done or thought on one day from the next. Time slipped by at such a rate, creating an impression in his mind that it no longer applied to him. His mind would emerge from this lifeless state on occasion, panicked, and he would make feeble attempts to create landmarks in the vast flowing river that was time. The house slowly became filled with messages to his future self, written on the pages of half-read books or scraps of loose paper. Over time these became more urgent in tone, often begging him to get out, get away, but when he came to find them again he could never remember when they had been written.  
Until one day, when the rain trickled to a stop. He looked up from the stale bread that was his evening meal. With a strange calm he etched a crude drawing on the floor, an old friend, grinning with that carefree grin that his vague memory recalled. And then, with a great effort, he looked at the evening sky, at the stars that were just beginning to show, and he worked out what day it was, and then what month, and year. And then he heard the heavy patter of the rain against the land outside, and he fell into his chair, exhausted. Again his conscious slipped out into the void. The next time his mind settled on the picture he gave a start. When? He threw himself at the task, with fear inside him, beside himself to discover how much time had passed. He could not believe the answer he came to. He checked again, lethargic and drowsy as he felt, but he surely could not be wrong. Could he? No. Seven months. And he could not remember any of it. He shifted himself onto the stale mattress beside his chair and wept. In a matter of minutes he passed into the best sleep he had had since he had bought that cursed house.   
  
In the morning, the rain had stopped. The sky was a clear, pale blue, and strained sounds of nervous birdsong could be heard, as if it was these birds had discovered for the first time that they could sing. The grass outside, having long consumed the stones that has formed the yard, was jewelled with the sparkling droplets of - rain? Or, possibly, dew? A strange, refreshing feeling cleared his thoughts. He still remembered the picture, oh yes. And now, looking, he began to remember more of his friend. A wave of loneliness swept over him, and nostalgia, and before long he found himself pining for company. And so, over the next hour, purpose came back into his life. His task was clear to him - wonderfully clear, and urgent. Before that accursed rain began again, he must get out of here. Get out of the house, get down from the hills and as soon as was possible get out of the country. Old information poured into his mind, roads he knew, routes he could take, local friends with which he could stay - how long had it been? Would they still remember him? He wondered if any would recognise him at all.   
  
There was time for this now, time for it all. His new goal was set before him, and he moved with quickened pace. His walk was still a hobble, and the pain was still there; for he had moved about so little within his creaky hut, for as long as his memory would stretch. But now, all spirit and emotion of the old days filled him so that he felt he might overflow with it. Had he the strength, he would have shouted and hollered, leaping about through the rooms of his home. He could not do this as he was, but it would come, and he felt a tremendous joy at the thought of tracking down his oldest and dearest friend.   
  
Once again, adventure!   
  
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Now you've read it, review it. Thankyou!   
  
CrackMonkey 


	2. Chapter 2

**The Figure Sat**  
Chapter 2

  
  
The figure cursed loudly as a bramble snagged on his arm for the fourth time that hour. Above him the sun was setting, hardly as majestic as he'd seen it on past travels; but nevertheless it was a pleasing sight. As the crimson rays intensified with the Sun's descent, casting long shadows across the fields and picking out the leaves of the spring trees in a beautiful scene of reds and golds, his thoughts turned to where he was going to sleep. Certainly the landscape had changed in the time he had been the prisoner of that house - he barely recognised it - and for such a seasoned traveller, he found himself embarrassed to admit that he was completely lost.  
  
He stumbled onward through the setting twilight over root and rock, assuring himself that over the next hill he would see the warm glow of village or farmhouse. Even a barn would do.  
  
But he did not fancy sleeping rough in the countryside. Of course, there were far less demons in the world than there had been during the times of the End, but some did still exist, skulking in the darkest caves and forests; hoping in vain for the return of their master and preying on those foolish enough to journey unprotected. Even during those days that the End had been at its nearest, there had been few creatures he had not felt he could handle; but now, weak and aching as he was, the thought of confrontation worried him. He had had little with which to arm himself other than a stout stick.  
  
It had been with great sadness that he had discovered his old weapon, now one of a perhaps legendary status, with its delicate engravements worn away by the years - yes; looking at the thing, it must surely have been years - of neglect and lack of maintenance. Withered, it all but fell apart when he touched it. He had packed the frail item with the rest of his luggage, with the hope that someone might be able to restore it; but for the moment it was useless.  
  
He could remember none of the spells he had learnt. Thinking back into what now seemed like another life, he could remember that magic had not come easily to him, but what he had managed he had painstakingly mastered. And, thanks to the rotting emptiness his mind had endured, it was all gone. He wondered if he would ever again be able to use magic.  
  
These thoughts put more pace into his stride, uneven as it was, and in the darkness his mind bent the shadows into horrifying shapes, shapes from his past, that leapt out at him through the night and chased him. He broke into a run. Madly he scrambled down slopes and over ditches, through patches of scrub and forest; imaginary demons haunting him wherever he looked.  
  
He was panicking, dismayed and hopeless; as he scrabbled over a cliff, down a steep hillside, barely keeping his footing, and along a muddy track. He threw himself at a fence, crashed through it as it collapsed underneath him, and looked up, panting and breathless, to see his sanctuary. A cold, deserted building.  
  
A church.  
  
He had a vague feeling that he was probably far safer outside. But he was tired, too tired, and the ground was hard and cold. At least if he slept amongst the pews his legs wouldn't seize up with cramp. He tried the door and found that it still moved on its rusty hinges. He went inside.  
  
Despite the years of neglect and desertion, the building was in remarkably good order. High above, dust danced lazily in the moonlight that shone through the stained glass windows, illuminating the chapel and bathing the altar in a pool of brilliant light. As he made his way down the aisle, he noticed that there was something about the great altar at the front of the church that was puzzling him. Stood on the altar, beside the dust-covered candles and old religious texts, was not the wheel of St. Eva, but something else, a bust, or statue. Of course! He remembered, now, that in the days following that last battle, how the order had been given across the world to destroy anything that, even in the smallest of ways, might have restored Eva's power. And now, as he approached, he could see that on the altar was a small shrine - a dragon. So he would be safe in here, at least.  
  
The night's rest was remarkably peaceful. He awoke feeling refreshed and ready, and with a surprising amount of energy. He set out and, after a few miles gentle walk along the outskirts of a forest, finally discovered a road. Things were looking up.  
  
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Reviews would be most thoroughly welcome, chaps.  
  
CrackMonkey 


End file.
